


Witches Promise

by tambrathegreat



Series: Snape takes a Tull [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus contemplates his life after Voldemort and settles into an anonymous retirement away from the wizarding world until fate strikes with an advertisement from a very recognisable former thorn in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witches Promise

**Author's Note:**

> All recognisable characters belong to Harry Potter by JK Rowling. The work title and subsequent section titles are from songs by Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull from their album "Living in the Past."

**Nursie**

Mother had always wanted to take him to Blackpool.  It was the one thing she always spoke of that could be done with a degree of certainty, even with the grinding poverty and constant threat of violence under which they both lived.  She would whisper to Severus of her family home, the glorious Prince estate of old, deep in the dark of the evening, with the sound of the telly roaring up the stairs and father’s drunken bellowing at the stupidity of the referees, the politicians, or the Americans.  It was odd really, that he would curse those men as cowboys, barbarians, and interlopers.  They were who he had fought beside in Korea.  It was their doctors who patched his wounds and gave him the start on his life-long addiction to pain medication and alcohol.  Yet, it seemed it was the Americans who had disappointed him the most, aside from Eileen and Severus. 

Father’s essence of angry disappointment had tinged Severus’ childhood nights with sour fear and heavy sadness, leaving the idea of Blackpool’s wonders tainted.  Mother spoke of the Lancastershire area in hushed, worshipful awe, relating the entailing of it to the Prince family by one of the Tudors, but not that wicked, ginger Henry, the one with all the wives and the antipapal views.  She claimed that the selfsame sly Lancastrian ambition lived in the Prince line, and that was why Severus, her son, would begin his life as a wizard in the most glorious house of Slytherin.  Severus would listen to her sibilant fairy tales, his eyes flat and black in the dimness of his room, and he would mouth the words of encouragement she needed to spin her tales, but he never believed her.  At an early age he had learned to never trust his mercurial mother, with her emotional zeniths and nadirs.  If his father was bitter, angry, and drunk, then his mother was fey, feckless, and _strange_.

 

After the war, Severus had gone into hiding having barely survived the machinations of both his puppet-masters.  He had finally gone to Blackpool and, through a series of nefarious acts, became the proud owner of not only a rotting manor house, but also the thoroughly Muggle title of “Lord Prince.”  Lucius would have laughed himself stupid over that.  Severus, as a newly made Lord, declined his tea with the Queen and retired to a caravan outside his crumbling, grotty manor so that he could make the repairs needed to make it livable.  The wards, set up over generations, had fallen into disrepair. He did not intend to engage them again.   He no longer practiced magic, and not just for practical reasons.  The instrument of his near death had left him depleted magically, his body ravaged by tremors, pain, and a curious sense of lethargy that never truly left him, no matter how much he slept.  Too much magic was out of the question for him.

 

He had been gravely ill that first year, requiring some form of medical care.  He did not trust Muggle doctors or the NHS, so he hired a hedge-witch, a young local woman who, though not strongly magical, dabbled in the ancient Muggle traditions of Wicca.   She was most likely a Squib from a long line of the same.  She was as lively as Severus was dour, enjoyed life as if it were a fine wine, and was pretty in her robin-ripe, country way.   She was his opposite in everything, and mercifully did not care when he, more often than not, reverted to his customary miserable form.  They did share a love of reading, hers more of the mystical, fantasy type than his, but still, she had introduced him to some interesting authors, and he had expanded her knowledge of the origins of her religious practices.  They got on well enough, and she began selling the infusions he taught her that weren’t too recognisable as magical in origin.  

 

She began sharing his bed the second year of their acquaintanceship, by which time he no longer paid her.  The arrangement was much less sordid and depressing that way.  He thought he might marry her someday, to ensure she stuck around.   Severus had learned the cost of hesitating, yet he still balked at the thought of tying himself to her.   Lily was still a ghost in his heart, though sometimes he went weeks without the pain of her loss goading him to some self-destructive act of contrition.  He thought that perhaps someday his country lover might make a scintillating bride to his shabby Frankenstein monster.  He would at least tell her of his place in his former world.  He would explain magic to her, and how he had to give it up.  He owed her that much.

 

Her name was Bette. Upon their first meeting, she’d proudly stated that she had been named after the film star by her grandmum.  Severus merely smiled painfully at the pronouncement.  He did not know and would never care about that aspect of her life.  She was the last of her family, an orphan raised by the bestower of film-star names, who was long dead.  He suspected that loneliness was the reason she tolerated him.  He knew it was his reason for accepting such an unlikely companion for himself.  He never spoke of his past, and she didn’t ask, and thus she still did not know about his magical nature.  He was fine with that.  He had no intention of ever entering that world again.   He told himself that he’d had enough of it all to last a lifetime.   He assumed he was dead to that world, and was completely content with the situation as it stood.

 

A murderous traitor could ask for nothing more.

 

He had no intention of going to Azkaban for his murder of Albus, for standing aside as Charity Burbage was killed, or for any of the other kilometres long list of laws he had willingly broken in service to the Light.   He had no illusions that anyone in that world would be grateful for his sacrifices, and frankly, he didn’t want that meagre emotion anyway.  The gratitude would end, and then everyone would remember what a bastard he really was, and they would pity him for his lifelong love of a dead woman.  Pity wouldn’t warm his bed and gratitude wouldn’t put food on his table.  He was better off this way and he knew it.

 

He had been fitting the upstairs of the manor house for plumbing on the day his life changed again. 

 

He heard Bette’s scream, and he cursed under his breath.  The woman could not abide spiders and made him their executioner whenever she came across one in the house.  Secretly, Severus only relocated the hapless creatures, palming the arachnids in his hands and carrying them to their freedom with an admonition not to return.  After the war, he ate no meat and killed no animals, insect or otherwise.  He superstitiously expected karma to come knocking on his door one day, and thought to stave off its return by eschewing certain acts, such as killing needlessly. 

 

The scream, though not pitched as high as one of Bette’s arachniphobic screams, still boded ill for Severus being able to get the last PVC line in before he called a halt to work for afternoon tea. 

 

He cursed foully as the spanner that had been holding a pipe in place slipped, bashing against his knuckles with enough force to split the flesh open.  Blood dripped through his fingers and onto the tiles as he cradled his other hand under the wound.

 

Bette thundered up the stairs on bare feet, calling with a note of panic in her tone, “Sev!”

 

 “Blasted woman!”  Severus cursed in an undertone. He let his voice rise as he said, “I’ll just be a moment...”

 

He heard her tread on the creaking floorboards outside the bath, along with the click-clicking of her scruffy Lakeland terrier’s toenails on the bare wood.  “Sev, a bald, black bloke with a gold earring...he looks like a genie...is here for you.  Said to tell you that if you refused to come, he’d send...”  The dog entered the room first as Bette paused at the door, her brow creased and her lips screwed down at the corners as she concentrated, “’He said he’d send a potter to fetch you.”

 

Severus felt a small huff of laughter escape him as Bette asked, “Why would he send a potter to fetch you?  Do you have a ceramics habit I don’t know about?  Are you an industrial spy for Wedgewood?”

 

Severus rolled his eyes expressively as his lips tugged involuntarily upwards.  The dog settled on the cool tile with an audible groan as Bette plopped down ungracefully next to Severus in a flounce of peasant style skirts and soft feminine scents.   Her loose tunic slipped off her shoulder, revealing her youthfully supple skin and a small, comely freckle that Severus never failed to want to taste.  She frowned.  “You’ve injured yourself again.”

 

“Yes, Madam.  How astute of you to observe that fact and then comment on it so assiduously.”  His dry tone drew a sparkling note of laughter from her.

 

“For all your grace, you’re as clumsy as a new foal.  I’ve never seen someone so accident prone.”  Bette rose and crossed to the makeshift medicine chest they had put on the wall after an incident with the toilet installation.  She drew out cotton wool, a white opaque bottle, and two plasters.  “Let me get you fixed up, and then you need to go see that bloke before he sends an army of clay warriors.  You can never be too careful when people threaten you with stoneware.”

 

Bette returned to his side, her lips the carrying the same type of saucy tilt that had secured her place in Severus’ bed after a drunken night of forced Yule cheer.  She dabbed a bit of cotton wool infused with some type of astringent.  Severus gave a cautioning hiss as she tended the cut and she scolded, “You’d think you would have never come into contact with antiseptics, the way you carry on when I use them.”  Severus opened his mouth to make a retort, but she knew his tactics and warned, “Hush. If I don’t clean it, you don’t go to meet the Moorish bloke downstairs, and my tea cakes will burn.  I made mocha just for you.”

 

Severus’ gaze flitted over her haze of blowsy, brown hair, pulled back into an indifferent knot at the nape of her neck.  His eyes caressed the sharp curve of her cheek, sprayed indecorously with freckles, but his roaming was finally arrested on the cleft above her lip. He had always found it captivating.   “Bette, I think it’s time that I tell you...”

 

The heavy tread of dragon hide boots on the landing stopped Severus’ words.  His heart beat erratically as Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped into the doorway. “Severus.”

 

Bette peeled the plaster from its backing and tugged on Severus’ hand as he attempted to jerk away.  Fear jolted through him as he hissed, “Shacklebolt.”

 

Bette looked up sharply at Severus and then patted his hand absently. She stood, then offered Severus her hand, assisting him to rise.  She knew from past experience that he was still weak on his right side.  Blood loss and poison had made him so.  Softly she said, “I’ll just get the tea ready and let you two talk.  Don’t be too long, Sev.”

 

She lifted her lips to him, and he kissed her absently, the bulk of his attention directed at the one man who would most likely spell his doom.

 

She passed Shacklebolt, shooting him a hard look, as if in warning.  She looked as threatening as a hissing kitten, and Severus covered an involuntary chuckle with a cough.   The mutt followed her from the room with a teeth-baring snarl at their guest. Kingsley had the good grace to look slightly chagrined at his reception on all fronts. He waited until Bette and the dog’s footfalls became distant before he said, “First of all, Sna— erm, Severus, I’m not here to cause you any problems.  I see... I see you have a life here... _finally_... and it’s not my intention to disrupt it.”  

 

Severus stared stonily at the Auror, trying to control the shaking in his hands that had nothing to do with the state of his health.  Shacklebolt drew an envelope and a flask from an interior pocket of his dated, houndstooth Muggle sport coat, holding the latter out to Severus.  “Here, it looks like you could use it.”

 

Severus scoffed, but took the flask.  He opened it, running the container under his nose to ascertain the contents.  He may not have brewed in years, but he was certain that he could smell adulterations to firewhisky.  The sharp, smoky scent of the drink assailed his nose as he lifted the flask to his lips and took a long draw, letting the smooth fire flow through his body as he swallowed.  Shacklebolt swiped his shining head with a hastily procured white handkerchief before he handed the packet to Severus.  “This is the transcript of your trial. We conducted it _in absentia_.  You were exonerated of all wrongdoing.  Harry spoke on your behalf.”

 

Severus stared dumbly at the large envelope which bore the official seal of the Wizengamot, and it felt as if it were unaccountably made of lead.  He made no move to open the package.  “Why are you here, Kingsley?  Surely our world hasn’t become so peaceful that the Head of the Auror Corps must serve as errand boy these days.”

 

“I’m actually Minister for Magic, Snape,” Shacklebolt said with the evenness of barely controlled ire.  His voice was a soft, echoing rumble against the tile of the room.   After a moment he continued, “I’m here about a boy, Severus.  Harry...”

 

_It is always about a boy_ , Severus thought bitterly.  If he wasn’t charged with saving Potter from himself, he was being forced to carry out a mad plan to save the soul of the spoiled child of his oldest friend, or keep some witless man-child from blowing  himself up with his own bloody-minded stupidity.   He closed his eyes and said, “ _No_ , Kingsley.  Absolutely not.  My vow of service to Li.... _Albus..._ is over, and I certainly have no intention of helping _Potter_.”

 

**Part 2: _Dharma for One_**

 

Muggle travel had always made Severus slightly ill.  He had always ended up in the loo on the Hogwarts Express, on his hands and knees over the toilet trying to sick up everything he had ever eaten.  He adjusted the too loose sleeves on his jumper, running his finger over the _Sea Bands_ that Bette had insisted he wear to stave off the ill-effects of travel.  She had put them on him herself just that morning with a tearful little pat to his arm, and a wobbly,  “I’ll miss you, you daft old sod.”

 

It had surprised Severus that she would express such a sentiment.  He had been in his bitterest, blackest mood since Shacklebolt had blackmailed him into teaching Potter how to make the modified version of Wolfsbane which Severus had concocted for Remus Lupin.  He had appealed to Severus’ over-developed sense of guilt at having survived when so many had died.  When that tactic had failed, he appealed to his sense of duty.  That was how Severus Snape, one time Death Eater, betrayer of Potter’s mother, and murderer of Dumbledore, was persuaded to aid Potter in the manufacture of Wolfsbane. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks had not deserved their fate any more than Lily had.  That their son, a boy named Teddy, shared any part of Lupin’s disease was a tragedy beyond what even Severus could ignore.   No child deserved to pay for his father’s disease.  Severus had learned that bit of wisdom from his father’s addictions.

 

The only good thing to come from Shacklebolt’s visit was his confession of his origins to Bette.  In turn, Bette had related that her family was well aware of the magical world, having served one of the oldest families in the area, adding that it was rumoured that her grandfather was one of them. She also added that her own claim to the family name was moot, having come from the sordid side of the sheet.. That the family in question held the name Prince, was no surprise.  The fact simply made it possible that Severus had been sleeping with a not so distant, if illegitimate, relative for over five years, a thing that was not frowned upon in certain pureblood, elitist circles, nor in baser men’s periodicals.

 

He peered out the window.  He would be reaching the Exeter station soon.  He was no longer connected to the Floo network, too weakened magically to Apparate, and was not fond of Portkeys in general.  The Dark Lord had cured him of the joy of that type of immediate travel, with his late-night summoning and the horror that Severus had to endure afterwards.  Potter was to fetch him from the station so that he might spend the next fortnight being frustrated by the man’s lack of skill in Potions and his general disregard for Severus’ own privacy. 

 

Shortly, the train lurched to a stop and Severus rose painfully, feeling the effects of all day jouncing travel, as he stretched to get his bags from the overhead bin.  A young woman with impossibly bright orange hair did the same, almost colliding with Severus in her haste to make her exit.  He waited impatiently whilst she struggled to pull down a large rucksack, exposing an indecent amount of skin in the process.  After a few tries, she shot him a nervous smile and then stretched further, almost falling over the seat in front of her as she did.  Severus, though disinclined to make the chit’s life easier, drew the heavy luggage down for her for the sake of expedience.  She mumbled something and shot off down the aisle, leaving him to struggle with his own bags.

 

He exited the compartment, hoping that Potter had not arrived so that he might turn right around and resume his quiet life away from the wizarding world, and away from reminders of his past.  A small unacknowledged part of him even wanted to get back to Bette and the counting of her freckles. 

 

He had barely stepped onto the platform when Potter appeared at his elbow.  “I’ll get your bags. “

 

Severus pulled his potions kit next to his chest, and left Potter with the rest.  He was a healthy wizard.  He could manage.

 

“I hope you like shepherd’s pie,” Potter began conversationally as he walked ahead of Severus to the car park.  “Ginny made it for dinner.”

 

“I don’t eat meat any longer,” Severus said absently and then stopped. “I was under the impression that I would be staying at a local hostel, not with you, Mr. Potter.”

 

“It’s Harry,” Potter answered with a smile, waving his hand in Severus’s direction to draw him along.  “And, sorry, but Godric’s Hollow doesn’t have much by way of accommodations.  It’s my house, or nothing.”

 

Severus made no comment, but fumed as they walked in silence to a battered blue car that looked vaguely familiar.  Severus hesitated at the door, narrowing his eyes, and asked, “Is this a Ford Anglia?”

 

“It’s _the_ Ford Anglia,”  Potter laughed. “I rescued it from the Forbidden Forest a few years ago.  It was being terrorised by the Centaurs and had a large infestation of jobberknolls.  Arthur and I worked on it for a full year.  It let us replace the windscreens, but never would let us do the body work.  I think it tickled it.” 

 

Severus huffed at the ridiculousness of the statement and entered the car, whilst Potter wrestled his bags into the boot.  The younger man got into the car, settling his still slight frame behind the wheel, and putting on his seatbelt before turning over the engine.  “Belt up, Snape.  I don’t want to get stopped by the police for a safety violation.”

 

Uncomfortable silence settled over the occupants of the car as they made their way through the city streets, on their way to one of the most infamous and celebrated towns in wizarding Britain.  Severus dreaded facing the spectre of Lily’s death again.  He would be in the same town in which she had been killed.  He waited for the agony that thoughts of her usually brought, but it never blossomed.  It was a strange feeling, the lack of pain, remorse, and remonstration.  It was as if a cancerous limb had been amputated, or he had lost a not so pleasant companion.   At that thought, his attention drifted towards Potter, but  he squelched the irritating sense of _déjà vu_.   Shacklebolt had made it clear to Severus to be on his best behaviour during this jaunt.  He turned back to his new lack of emotional indigence, and  wondered about this new development as the city scenery slid into more picturesque country lanes dotted with wattle and daub houses with thatched roofs. 

 

“...said you read my ad and volunteered.  It was good of you to give up even a bit of your well-deserved rest, Snape.  I know Remus wasn’t...”

 

Potter’s voice droned on, and Severus did his best to tune it out as he tried to dredge up the same resentment he had felt for the Potter sire that had coloured his perception of the boy so many years ago.

 

“...been exonerated, but we weren’t sure you still got the Prophet.  Our owls were returned... Hermione and Ron send their best.  The Weasleys too, even George has forgiven you... for the ear, not about the points you took from Gryffindor...”

 

“We had heard you survived.  Draco Malfoy let us know.  I don’t know how he knew, but he did...” Severus closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to a relaxed state as Potter continued, “So, thanks again, Sir.  There is so much that I have to thank you for.  I misjudged you from the start...”

 

 Severus jerked to consciousness at the cessation of movement.  “Snape, we’re here. “

 

The house at which they had stopped was the one dwelling that had destroyed years of sleep for Severus, the one place that had brought him down the dark paths of unattainable redemption.   It was the house where his love had died, killed by a monster served by none other than Severus himself.

 

Distantly aware of Potter's squawk of distress, Severus felt himself succumbing to an uncharacteristic faint.

 

**Part 3: _Wond’ring Again_**

 

Little hands pried at his eyelids, little sticky hands, followed by a gust of milky breath.  Severus rolled over onto his side and captured the terrible infant with a growl as she shrieked with laughter.  The child, named Lily, was only bearable to him in small doses.  At least that’s what he told himself.  If, in moments of weakess, he admitted the truth to himself, he found her uncomplicated company consoling in some ways. She, with her curling red hair, her golden-brown eyes, was the best of the lot, as far as Severus was concerned.  Her lustrous presence only aided his realisation that life had gone on in the wizarding world, even if he had holed himself up with his bitterness, his lack of magic, and his delicious nurse.

 

It only puzzled Severus a little that a single thought of Bette could bring longing for her company.  He would not admit that he missed her, not in this house.

 

Of course, he only allowed Lily to visit him.  He never crossed the threshold of her room.  _That room,_ which Potter had pointed out as the one visited by his former leader, the one where his love had died, taking his heart and interring it with her so many years before.

 

Lily, the imp, laughed and gave him a wet kiss, open-mouthed on his chin, more drool and tooth than lip.  He pulled back from her as the questing teeth sunk into his skin, drawing a surprised shriek from her as he  held her at arm’s length and exclaimed, “You _bit_ me!”

 

“Muuuuuum!  Lily bit the Porfessor... _aga-ain!_ ”  The thunder of less welcome little feet sounded on the landing as Severus’ other shadow, the self-proclaimed protector of one malevolent, greasy bastard, shouted over the hubbub from below.  “Muuuuum, did you hear me?  She bit him and he’s hurt.  He’s probably bleeding.”

 

“James Sirius Potter, I think the Pro...Mr. Snape, can take care of himself.  Now get down here and help your brother lay the table.”  Severus suppressed a chuckle at hearing Molly Weasley’s tone issue from her youngest.  Apple and tree analogies aside, Potter could have done much worse than Ginevra Weasley.  “Al, don’t put that there!  Noses don’t like things shoved up them, you goose.”

 

Severus settled the squirming bundle of Lily against his chest, keeping her well away from facial protrusions, as he rose from the chaise on which he rested every evening. Brewing had been difficult for him since he arrived.  He was completely out of practice, and while the intent and skill was there, the magic just would not flow.  Not to mention that ‘Call-me-Harry’ Potter, though much improved since his school days, was still fairly abysmal at following the simplest directions.  Severus sometimes wondered if the boy had a learning disability, or was indeed as dense as the brick of lead as he had originally assumed him to be. 

 

The girl squirmed against his chest as she twisted about, her chubby legs clasping his waist as he moved around the room setting to right the things that she had put in complete disarray during her short visit.

 

From the doorway Potter said, “Let me take her off your hands.  I know you don’t like the children in your room.”

 

Severus whirled about, his wand hand extended.  Old habits die hard, it seemed.    “She’s fine, Potter.  She’s much less an unwelcome presence than... most.”

 

Severus was gratified to see the younger man flush at his words.

 

The girl gave a squeal, and an injudicious kick to his kidneys, holding out her hands to her father, and screaming, “ _Daaaaa_ -da-da!”

 

Potter crossed into the room and opened his arms to his daughter, who overextended herself in Severus’ arms and flopped into her father’s chest face first.   As Potter made to leave, he paused at the doorway and said, “You know, you don’t look so bad with a baby in your arms.  Have you ever considered having one of your own?”

 

“ _Out_ , Potter,” Severus said with a repressive scowl, though visions of freckled imps with beaky noses and hoydenish ways visited his mind.  He loved Lily he swore to himself, he still did. Nothing had changed.

 

&*&*&

 

A week had passed since the inception of the tutoring project that would not end.  Severus stood from his stooped position, watching Potter as he laboriously sliced the aconite into thin, even sections.  Potter’s tongue was lodged firmly between his teeth, the tip of it sticking out between his lips. The image forcibly reminded Severus of the boy’s father.  James Potter had always looked extremely dim in Potions. He snorted softly as he rubbed his back, waiting for the inevitable correction he would have to make to the ingredients before their addition to the waiting potion. 

 

Potter looked up at him from under the boyish fringe he still wore, grimacing as he said, “Sorry it’s taking so long.  I just want to make sure I get this one right.  Teddy will need it by month’s end.”

 

Severus turned away from Potter.  “I was under the impression that the boy did not exhibit signs of lycanthropy.”

 

“He doesn’t.  This is just a preventative potion.”  Potter resumed his laborious slicing, the noise enough to set Severus’ nerves on edge.  “Andromeda, Tonks’ mum, was told he would need it until he reached puberty, as a “just in case measure”, and since you made the modificatiions to the potion you made for Remus, I told her I’d try to learn to make it from your notes.  It’s the least I could do for him.”

 

“Yes, I am aware of the meaning of preventative, Potter,”  Severus said as he moved to the cauldron to watch the potion simmer.  “You will need to add the aconite as soon as the base reaches a boil.”

 

“Done.” Potter pushed the chopping board towards him.

 

 Severus looked the material over and sniffed again as he found the sliced pieces close to perfection.  “Adequate, Potter.”

 

“It wouldn’t kill you to use my first name,” Potter mumbled as he moved to the painstakingly transcribed directions.  Severus was saved from having to retort as the potion began to roll to a full boil.  Potter turned to the cauldron, silver stirrer in one hand, as he began sprinkling the aconite over the bubbling surface.  Once done, he lowered the heat and began the hundred-count of widdershins stirs that would render the potion most potent.   Severus sat back down, turning his profile to the younger man as he began working the crossword puzzle in the _Times._

 

As the count came to a close, Potter grunted, more a surprised noise than one of satisfaction.  Severus pulled his attention away from the puzzle and looked toward the cauldron.  It was giving off a steaming silver column of smoke.  He waved his hand over the potion to gain a clear view of it and was equally taken aback at the gunmetal grey colour of the potion. “It seems that you are not a complete dunderhead, Potter.  The potion has taken on the proper colour, if not the right shade.”

 

The younger man’s shoulders sagged as he vanished the potion.  “I expect that’s the best I can get from you.”

 

“I live to irritate you, Potter.  It is my reason for being.”

 

“My name is Harry. Not Potter. Can’t you call me that just once, Snape?”

 

“No, I cannot. I have never encouraged a closer acquaintanceship with you,”  Severus spat.  “With the exception of the memories I gave to you so that you would offer yourself as a lamb to slaughter, you do not know me, and I do not intend to make an effort to become friends with you.”

 

“I’m not my father.” Harry’s voice broke on the last word.  “I never was.  I _hate_ bullies.”

 

“Ah  yes, now we get to the heart of the matter. You still resent me for being the voice of reason all those years ago,”  Severus returned.  “You, who consistently gave me cheek, even from the first day in class, can berate _me_ for my behaviour and imply that I was a bully.”

 

“I didn’t say that you w...” Potter began.

 

Severus spoke before he could continue, his volume rising. “Even from the very first, you had decided that I was ugly and evil, of no consequence, a person to thwart at every turn.  You were a spoiled brat then, and you flaunted your celebrity at every turn.”

 

“What? No... I didn’t... _bloody hell_ , Snape, would you listen to yourself?!” Potter’s volume matched his own as he shouted, “I was a little boy, raised by a family that couldn’t stand me.  For fuck’s sake, the first five years of my life, I thought my name was ‘Freak!’  Do you think that atmosphere was conducive to me being...what did you say?...‘an arrogant, spoiled brat, or an attention-seeking celebrity?’”

 

Severus narrowed his eyes, his face set in the sneering mask he had cultivated whilst he was teaching. It was a familiar gesture, one that preserved his dignity.   “You still are, Potter.”

 

“MY NAME IS _HARRY!_ ”  Potter’s face twisted and for a single alarmed moment Severus thought the younger man might burst into tears.  He swept his hand over the remaining ingredients, scattering them across the surface of the table.  “You know what?  Never mind.  I don’t need to make this potion.  We can get what Teddy needs at St. Mungo’s.”

 

Severus sneered, “Thus consigning me to my exile once again.”

 

“Wha...?”  Potter slammed his fist onto the granite surface of the table.  Severus cringed inwardly, knowing how it would hurt the next day.  He had a great deal of experience with that type of self-inflicted injury.  “You’re the one who left!  I stayed here to try to rebuild what your _friends_ had destroyed!  You couldn’t be arsed to bother with us once you had done your duty by my mum.  She was the only thing you ever cared about in your miserable, hate-filled existence!  You never once thought how...” Potter’s voice broke and he pushed his glasses up to swipe at his too-bright eyes.  “You never once thought that you might have mattered to me if I had known how much you loved her, how you had dedicated... We could have been... Sod it, what’s done is done.”

 

Severus felt as if he had been kicked in the gut by a hippogriff as the pain of lost opportunities and squandered time assailed him.  He recovered enough of his self-loathing to say, “I would have offered your life for hers.  I still would, as much as it shames me to admit it.”

 

“And I’d take Sirius over _you_ any day, but that’s not how it worked out.”  Potter heaved a gusty sigh.  “Just help me learn this potion and I’ll never bother you again, Snape.”

 

“Your hand is swelling.”  Severus observed after moments of charged silence.  “Perhaps you should let your wife look at it before we continue.”  As Potter lifted his wand to heal himself, Severus added, “For once don’t be daft, only a fool heals himself.”

 

“Yeah?  Well...” Potter began, before exhaling gustily as he cradled his hand against his chest.  “It hurts like hell.  I think I might have broken something.”

 

Severus waved his fingers dismissively as he turned back to his puzzle.  He thought he might have heard Potter mutter, “Even if I wasn’t talking about you to begin with, you _were_ a bully to me and my friends.”

 

Severus had to agree with the boy, no matter how much it galled him.  During his final days as a professor, those served whilst his nemesis’ child attended Hogwarts, he had become a sneering, domineering mess.  That bit of unpleasantness had been the only thing he could control with any certainty.  Perhaps he might revisit the idea of letting the boy know more about his mother, and in the process attempt to see past Potter’s sire.  He owed him at least that much.  It wasn’t as if he were going to see Potter after the younger man learnt the potion.  Severus held no illusions about his place in the boy’s life.  He was and always would be as unwelcome as he was unwelcoming.

 

&*&*&

 

Severus had never heard such a racket as was made the next morning over breakfast.  Ginevra insisted on slamming every pot she owned whilst fixing the children’s eggs and toast.  Potter had not risen yet, he had stayed behind the evening before to clean the work area without magic as Severus insisted.  Severus himself had had little sleep, and so the racket raised by the woman of the house seemed louder, grated on his nerves a bit more than it normally would have. 

 

Potter’s wife slapped a chipped willow-ware plate with a full fry-up in front of him.  “You know, he’s not unbreakable.”

 

She returned to the hob, spooning out mushy eggs in small portions.  Once done, she sat the plates in front of the boys and then proceeded to feed Lily her portion of gruel.  Severus made no reply.  What could he say?  He had been unfair and would repent of it immediately?  Mrs. Potter would know he was lying.  There had only been one action in his life that he felt penitent for, and that repentance had ended badly. 

 

Severus pushed his food around his plate.  He had never been one for breakfast, even before his war injuries had decreased his appetite.  Bette’s cooking had been the only food he could tolerate, and then only in small quantities.  Young James, and a more aptly named child Severus had never seen, watched him as he stirred the beans over the fried tomatoes, and the runny eggs.  When his mother’s attention was presumably fully on the baby, he whispered, “Mum doesn’t let us waste food.  You need to eat at least a little, or she’ll go spare.”

 

A derisive snort sounded from the mother in question.  “Mummy’s already angry, Jamie, now finish your food.  We’re going to Grandmum and Grandad’s today.” As the boys cheered and Lily squealed in riotous sympathy, Ginevra added with a grimace in Severus’ direction, “They’ve invited you, too.  I told Mum you hadn’t changed, and would probably not attend, but she insisted I invite you.”

 

The gauntlet had been thrown, and Severus felt the urge to laugh as he rose from his seat, scraped his food into the disposal, and swept from the room, nose in the air.  There was no way in Merlin’s Crystal Cave that he was going to meet with the rest of the ginger clan.   He had severed one of their ears for Circe’s sake. 

 

He spent the afternoon puttering about the silent house, waiting for Potter to arrive home so that he might resume his Herculean task.  He found himself in front of the one room he had not dared to even think about his entire time there.  

 

The nursery door was new, painted a silvery white, and ajar.  Severus felt his heart speed up as he approached the room, hand out, as if in supplication to the ghosts that waited therein.

 

He crossed the thman’s reshold and was almost surprised to see that it was an ordinary room.  Painted a delicate lavender, with fluffy clouds gracing the ceiling, and animated flowers charmed to move with a spelled breeze, he was almost disappointed.  Where was the ravening ghost of his dead love?  Where was the crushing sense of guilt he felt from anything that reminded him of Lily and that time?  He waited in the room with the soft clouds and animated flowers for something, anything, to happen. When it didn’t, he sat in a rocking chair and waited some more, until finally his eyelids sagged, and he fell asleep in that room of death, despair, and new beginnings.

 

“Snape...” Potter’s strangely calloused hands stirred him to wakefulness, his expression shuttered. “I don’t want to be a nuisance but, well...Lily...”

 

Sometime in the in-between of his long wait for the pain to assail him and the nap that seemed to have healed some broken spot in his psyche, the man’s voice had lost its power to irritate him.  Severus stretched as he let his eyes stray to the toddler in her cot, her hair curled into sweaty ringlets, her fist under her chin.  He could just make out the Cupid’s bow of her pink lips and the hollow of her cheek in the dim light of evening that fought its way through the lowered shade.  Potter had already turned to leave when Severus stopped him.  “P...Harry, I should like to... tell you of your... Lily.  She would want me to do that, I think.”

 

 “I’d like that, Snape.”

 

“I think I might also,” Severus answered. “Now, as we have work to accomplish tonight, you had best tell your wife you’ll be up late.” 

 

 

**Part 4:  Up the ‘Pool**

 

Severus had never imagined that he would come to be welcomed into the Potter family, yet he was.  He and Potter still had their issues, and on occasion they clashed , but for the most part both of them had come to a tranquil parity. It was in that strange turn of events that he had come to be settled on the beach maintained by the municipality of Blackpool, ensconced on a wooden chair, spooning Italian ice into a cranky, slightly pink Lily, whilst watching his new wife of a day and a few hours playing with the boys in the water.  Her burgeoning belly tightened the fabric of her bathing costume.  She was five months gone, but still sylphlike in her movements.  He supposed she contained her own special kind of magic when she noticed his attention on her and waved happily at him before giving chase to the unfortunately named Albus Severus.

 

“Severus!  Lookee here!”  the oldest boy screeched.  “I found some shells and they peed on me!”

 

The boy held up a small clam with its siphon extended, still dripping water from the orifice.  Harry, who lay on a towel in the sand shouted, “Put it back in the water, James Sirius! You’re probably frightening it to death.”  He muttered, “I swear he’s more like Charlie every day, Gin.”

 

Potter turned to his wife, who was reading a Muggle novel that rested on her already red-tinged thighs.  He softly murmured something to her and she laughed throatily, closing her book as she rose.  “I hope you don’t mind us leaving for a moment, Severus, but I need another application of sunscreen.”

 

“You want me to take Lily for a bit?”  Harry asked as he stood, brushing the sand from his knees and feet as he slipped them into some type of plastic Muggle sandal. 

 

“I doubt that Lily’s psyche will be able to withstand your diligent application of said product to your wife’s... body,”  Severus answered. “It sends chills down my spine simply thinking about it.”

 

“Well, don’t then!” Potter gave a sharp bark of laughter and a cheeky grin. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.  Don’t worry.”

 

Ginevra grabbed Harry by his hand and began dragging him in the direction of the B and B at which they were staying.  “I hope it will take longer than that, Dearest.”

 

Severus grimaced, but refrained from comment. 

 

He wondered if his mother had envisioned this type of life for him in her ancestral home, married to a squib, on friendly terms with the ultimate Gryffindor, and most strangely, happy. 

 

“Mo’, ‘Rus!” Lily gurgled impatiently, and he returned to spooning the ice into her waiting mouth.  He hoped that wherever Eileen Prince was, she was content. 

 

For the first time in his life, looking out over the waters of Blackpool, he knew he was.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please take the time to let me know what you think.


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